"Please, Rae? Just once before the surgery. I want to see where you become magic."
Those signs from three days ago had absolutely wrecked me. Elsie's hands shaping words that made me feel like maybe I wasn't just a hot mess masquerading as a functional adult.
So here we are—my baby sister, death-gripping her sketchbook like it contains state secrets, standing in Lumière's entrance while I try not to panic about the three men I've recently let scramble my insides who could appear at any moment.
This is fine. Everything is fine.
Just a casual dinner with my sister at the restaurant where I work and definitely haven't been mentally undressing my bosses during service.
The hostess leads us to a corner table with perfect sightlines into the kitchen and Elsie's eyes go wide, drinking in every detail like she's trying to memorize it for later.
"It's more beautiful than I imagined," she signs, settling into her chair. "The way you described the lighting… I thought you were exaggerating, but you weren't. The shadows have actual intention here."
"The owner is particular about ambiance." I glance toward Jared's usual spot by the window and find it empty. Relief and disappointment war in my chest. "He says dining should be theater for all the senses."
"Even for people missing one?" Her smile holds zero self-pity, just genuine curiosity.
"Especially for them. The vibrations from the speakers travel through the floor. Feel the table."
She presses her palm flat against the wood, forehead scrunching in concentration. Then her whole face lights up like Christmas morning.
"There's music in it!" Her signs are rapid, excited. "Classical, right? Something with strings. I can feel the bass notes traveling through."
Pride swells beneath my ribs. My sister notices everything, translates the world into patterns most people overlook entirely.
God, I love this kid.
"Show me what you brought," I sign, nodding toward her sketchbook.
Elsie hesitates, then slides the leather-bound book across the table with the reluctance of an artist revealing something too personal for comfortable sharing. The first page steals my breath.
The kitchen. My kitchen. Rendered in graphite with such precision I can almost smell the searing proteins and hear Maxwell barking orders.
She has captured flames leaping from burners, steam rising in spiraling columns, hands moving in urgency. Every detail is accurate despite never having witnessed it firsthand.
"I drew it from your descriptions," she signs when I look up. "You talk about this place like it's a living thing."
I turn the page and find sound waves translated into visible color. Cascading ribbons of violet and gold spiral outward from a central point, intersecting and diverging like silk scarves caught in wind.
At the bottom, she has written: What I imagine music looks like.
"Elsie, these are..." My voice cracks. "You're so talented it's stupid."
"Turn to the last one."
The final drawing is a portrait of me. Standing at a stove, wooden spoon raised mid-stir, hair escaping my ponytail in wild tendrils.
She has captured concentration in the set of my jaw, passion in the curve of my shoulders, exhaustion in the shadows beneath my eyes. The level of detail borders on photographic.
"This is how I see you here," she signs.
I'm not crying. You're crying.
Tears burn behind my eyes. I reach across the table and squeeze her hand, words failing me entirely.
Movement in my peripheral vision makes me look up, expecting our server.
Instead, I find Jared standing beside our table, storm-blue eyes locked on my sister with an expression I can't quite read.
Then his hands rise.
And he starts signing.
What the actual fuck?
"Hello, Elsie." Each sign is careful, deliberate, clearly requiring enormous concentration. His form is terrible—like watching someone try to write with their non-dominant hand while drunk—but he's trying. "I am Jared. Your sister talks about you often."
My brain short-circuits. Completely. Full system failure.
Jared Spencer—billionaire, restaurant owner, man who made me come three times in one night—is standing in the middle of his Michelin-starred establishment butchering ASL for my little sister.
"When—" I can barely get the word out. "When did you start learning?"
"Few weeks ago." Pink creeps up his neck like watercolor paint. "After you mentioned Elsie's surgery. Found an online tutor. My finger-spelling apparently looks like I'm having a stroke, but I wanted to be able to talk to her directly."
Oh no. Oh fuck.
That's... that's the most romantic thing anyone's ever done and it's not even for me.
Elsie's practically vibrating with excitement, her signs so fast I almost miss them.
"This beautiful man has been learning an entire language just to talk to me!"
"I know," I sign back, throat tight. "I see him."
Jared watches our exchange with adorable confusion, clearly aware we're discussing him but unable to follow our speed.
"May I?" He gestures to the empty chair, and when Elsie nods enthusiastically, he sits like he's been invited to join royalty. "Would you help me practice? I promise to be a better student than your sister is with sauce reductions."
"Hey!" I protest, but Elsie's already shoving her sketchbook at him.
"Incredible," he breathes, studying the kitchen drawing and turning to sister so she could read his lips. "Elsie, this is genuine talent. Have you considered art school?"
She shakes her head, signs her response slowly so he can follow. "Art school costs money."
"What if you designed something for Lumière?" His eyes flick to mine, loaded with meaning I refuse to examine. "A mural for the private dining room. I'd pay professional rates."
Elsie's hands freeze mid-air. She looks at me like she needs confirmation this is real life and not some fever dream.
"He doesn't offer things he doesn't mean," I tell her, while internally screaming at the universe to stop making me fall harder for men I can't keep.
They continue their adorable disaster of a conversation—Elsie patiently correcting his hand positions while Jared repeats signs with the determination of someone learning to defuse a bomb.
"Jared, darling. There you are."
The voice cuts through the warm bubble surrounding our table.
A woman in head-to-toe Chanel approaches, brunette hair swept into an architectural updo, jewelry glinting at her throat and wrists. Her smile displays perfect teeth without touching her eyes.
Winnie. Jared's fiancée.
I recognize her from photographs in society pages I definitely do not browse obsessively.
"Family business requires your attention," she continues, manicured hand closing around his arm. "Your mother is asking for you."
The transformation in Jared is immediate—shoulders stiffening, warmth draining from his features, the playful student replaced by the controlled businessman I first encountered.
"Of course." He rises, nodding formally to Elsie. "We will continue our lesson another time. Consider my offer about the mural."
Winnie's gaze slides over me with the efficiency of someone cataloging furniture. Not even interesting furniture. Like, the beige couch in a dentist's waiting room.
They leave, and I try not to feel like I've been slapped by reality wearing Louboutins.
"Well, that was sufficiently awkward."
Maxwell and Kobe materialize like they were summoned by the scent of my humiliation.
"We noticed the commotion," Maxwell says, grey eyes tracking Winnie's retreating form with barely concealed distaste. "Thought we'd introduce ourselves properly to your sister."
Kobe executes a bow so elaborate it belongs in a Jane Austen adaptation, one hand across his chest, the other extended toward Elsie like he's requesting a dance at a ball.
"Enchanted to meet the artist responsible for those extraordinary drawings," he declares with exaggerated formality. "Kobe Spencer, professional nuisance and occasional actor, at your absolute service."
Elsie actually giggles—a rare sound that makes my heart squeeze—and signs her response.
"She says your bow needs work, but she appreciates the commitment to the bit," I translate.
Maxwell's lips twitch. "I like her already."
They settle into conversation, Kobe charming her with increasingly ridiculous celebrity stories while Maxwell watches with that almost-smile he reserves for things he actually enjoys.
Then Elsie signs something that makes me choke on my wine.
"That one," she indicates Maxwell when he's turned away. "The grumpy chef with the forearms."
"What about him?" I sign back, praying my face isn't as red as it feels.
Her next signs nearly kill me:
"He looks at you like you're the only thing in this room worth seeing. Also, I bet he could throw you around like a rag doll. Get it, sis."
I'm going to end my teenage sister. Right after I die of embarrassment.